


eux avec le vent

by scionblad



Series: sang et vin [2]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - The Witcher, Developing Relationship, F/M, Male-Female Friendship, Murder, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-20 12:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16137272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scionblad/pseuds/scionblad
Summary: To the Lady Witcher Marinette of Proulx-Chêne,At the behest of our merciful sovereign, Her Illustrious Grace Chloé Marie, we have traveled to the northern lands to lay before you our mission. A terrible monster has appeared in the Duchy of Toussaint, a beast that has committed heinous crimes against her Grace's subjects. Only the Fairest Among Witchers has the ability to destroy the Beast, thus we humbly beseech you to appear in the village of Holloway, where we shall await you in full hope that you will deign to hear of our woes and liberate our land from the clutches of fear.———When the duchess of Toussaint summons the witcher Marinette (and one Adrien tagging along) to slay the Beast of Toussaint, she finds herself in a situation more complicated than she expected—the return of old flames, appearances not being what they seem, and a plot to undermine it all at the heart of it. And throughout it all, she must navigate the most difficult situation she's had to face yet: her feelings for Adrien.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> by popular demand, and also by the love that my friend jen and i hold for the witcher 3: wild hunt, more witcher au! there isn’t a particular need to read the other short introductory drabble, or to even be familiar with the witcher series; i think, at least, that i provide a decent amount of sparknotes in the prose of this fic, lol.
> 
> (yes i DO have the blood and wine dlc. It’s a good dlc. I love it)
> 
> some of the surnames, however, are changed around a little bit from how they are in the show, to sort of make this world feel more true to faux-medieval fantasy shenanigans. (for example, the fact that marinette’s name is dupain……. Of Bread……….) also hyphenated fake french names! hyphenated fake french names everywhere!
> 
> Regarding certain tags:  
> Aged-Up Characters - witchers can live unnaturally long times, so Adrien and Marinette are both around 100 years old, give or take.

_To the Lady Witcher Marinette of Proulx-Chêne,_

_At the behest of our merciful sovereign, Her Illustrious Grace Chloé Marie, we have traveled to the northern lands to lay before you our mission. A terrible monster has appeared in the Duchy of Toussaint, a beast that has committed heinous crimes against her Grace's subjects. Only the Fairest Among Witchers has the ability to destroy the Beast, thus we humbly beseech you to appear in the village of Holloway, where we shall await you in full hope that you will deign to hear of our woes and liberate our land from the clutches of fear._

_Your humble servants:_ _  
_ _Sirs Jean-Paul de Pont-Pontiers and Blaise de Césanne, Knights in the service of Her Grace and the Duchy_

 

The notice on the board outside the inn had a strange sound to it. Most notices were akin to the scribblings of barely-literate peasants, reading simply _Wanted: Kill a Beast_ with misspellings wrought everywhere, but this one read more akin to a letter from a romance novel—one addressed to her, no less. She frowned at it for a moment, noting the fresh darkness of the ink, and the vaguely familiar lilt of the handwriting. Then with a swift motion, she gripped the tack with which it was hung on the wood, pulled it out swiftly, and caught the parchment in the other hand.

The inn that was mentioned in question was about a half-day’s ride south from where they were, and the sun was setting now, casting warm evening gold on the fields surrounding the modest clump of peasant’s houses. Their horses were dipping their heads into troughs of hay under the small shelter on the side of the inn, and standing between them was a tall man with tousled blond hair and leather armor that hugged his impressive, lean musculature. The peasants turned suspicious eyes on the two swords on his back, and swung a wide berth around him as he cooed to the horses, rubbing the black one down with practiced hands.

Typical. She had hardened her heart to the cold glares and hotly tossed insults. Their trade was necessary, they had always said, but the strength necessary to perform those tasks came with fear and suspicion by those who did not know the ways of the witcher. Eyes with slit pupils, a stomach for poisons that would kill a normal human, womb and seed that would bear no child. They were as monstrous as the vermin they sought to kill.

The blond witcher turned his head to look at Marinette as she approached, one eyebrow arching over the his green eyes, contracted in the bright light of the setting sun.

“Contract?” he said, in a voice that lilted back and forth playfully.

“As usual, but also unusual,” she replied. Tikki snorted and tossed her mane, and Marinette rubbed her horse’s neck soothingly. “Addressed to me, no less.”

He plucked it out of her hand and skimmed it. “Lady Witcher Marinette of Proulx-Chêne!” he read. “I did not know you were from there.”

“I’m not,” said Marinette, snatching the paper back. “It’s just the one I thought of when they made us pick a name.”

“Hmm,” he hummed absently. “I always just went by ‘Adrien.’ Not one for fancy names.”

“Uh-huh.” She folded the parchment and tucked it in a pouch. “Are you up for riding?”

“Right now?” Adrien grinned, showing teeth. “Ready when you are, milady.”

They swung up onto their horses, and guided them to the road that traveled south, the now-red sun at their right-hand sides. The terrain was all rolling hills, tall grasses, rocky ravines with hidden creeks. They rode hard and fast, as they liked, racing upon the winding trodden paths and bridges, Adrien’s teasing grin egging her own, her own prideful smirk unable to resist breaking through her careful mask.

The path veered through woods, hills, grass, and as their race veered towards the shallow parts of the river, she heard a whooping laugh escape his lips. She couldn’t help her own, joining them, two witchers laughing into the night as their horses’ hooves stampeded the dirt and splashed water. Such was the rhythm they had settled into after several moons traveling together, after a fateful night where he had slaughtered an entire village as retribution for denying him a contract’s payment.

He had been entirely at her mercy, a hand clutching his injured side, his hair matted with sweat and the blood of those he’d killed, and she had seen something there. Perhaps it was in the glint of his green eyes so like hers, the almost feral grin he’d worn despite the pain, the way he called her “milady”—not that she’d ever admit that to him. Something compelled her to show generosity. She had given him a mouthful of Swallow potion, and as she set about to leave, he had jumped up, all eager and flushed, and offered to travel with her on the Path.

Initially, she’d thought he might have been more of a nuisance than a companion, but the past several contracts had seen him prove himself well. He easily slew the archgriffin that had been terrorizing several villages near the Eastern Sea, and the higher vampire terrorizing the northern part of Novigrad. He had a way with his looks and his words that easily roused whoever he spoke to, and she couldn’t deny that his skill was valuable in gathering information and getting their way in tricky situations. Even now, as he tossed a glance behind him, his blond hair brushing over his forehead, she couldn’t help but feel a pattering flutter of excitement.

At his skill, of course. It was just companionship.  Despite his attractive looks—of which she’d never admit to, not in front of him—he offered only companionship. A ear to listen to her worries, which were few; a mouth to ponder with her, which was occasionally; a set of lungs to breathe silently beside her, so she wasn’t so alone as they slept. But most of all, he was a sword in the dark, protecting her back—not under her command, for he had come to prove himself worthy as an equal, a companion, a partner.

She wasn’t sure whether he understood _that_ sort of thing anyway. Wherever they went, he never took a woman to bed, brothel or not. Sometimes, over a mug too many of mead, she wondered if it was because he’d admitted to living in the forest by himself for too long, unused to the stone walls of a solid building, unable to sleep without the stars in the sky above him, unable to speak to people without promise of a contract. Let alone a woman in bed.

It was yet a topic she knew of concretely. He had never spoken of his past. It had only been a few moons, after all. In the life of a witcher, that was nothing.

The inn was cloaked in night when they arrived. They took a room after passing some coins to the innkeep, and when she laid her swords under her pillow, Adrien spoke.

“Toussaint, huh,” he said.

He had arranged himself on the floor, as he usually deigned to sleep on the floor when they took rooms at inns. The beds were too soft, he always complained. She pulled off her boots and crossed her legs. He watched obediently, his blond hair spread out in a halo, lit golden by the small fire.

“Yes,” she said. “Toussaint.”

“Aren’t you from Toussaint?” he asked. “Your name, your title, your—medallion is a manticore.”

She was quiet a moment. His eyes were searching, under the veneer of mild politeness was a feral hunger, one that intrigued her. It was hard to place, his expression. Perhaps it was desperation— _for what?_ she mused, gathering the words to try and respond to him.

“I was Toussaintois,” she said. “In my life before this one. But I left decades ago.”

He gave a soft hum of approval, rolling his head side to side and closing his eyes. “I also,” he said. “That much we have in common.”

“Do you still know anyone there?” she asked, haltingly, compelled by some strange desire to make conversation.

He let out a sharp bark of a laugh, his eyes darkening. “Not living, probably. Why? Do you think someone you know wrote that notice? Don’t tell me you know the Duchess Chloé Marie,” he said with a sharp, jesting tone.

His eyes seemed to flicker with some sort of emotion that she couldn’t make out. Maybe it was the fire, she thought. His thoughts were not hers to know.

“Nothing like that,” she said. “A sorceress I know is advisor to her.”

“A sorceress?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

She laid herself down on the bed, sighing contentedly as her head touched soft pillow. “My dearest friend,” she began.

He kept his eyes on her, hanging on her words.

“Her name is Alya de Césaire-Martaine.”

“Alya de Césaire-Martaine,” repeated Adrien quietly, spoken in a low tone, as if he was remembering her name.

“Do you know of her?”

“No,” he said promptly. “What sort of person is she?”

Marinette lazily ran fingers through her hair. “Defiant,” she said eventually. “Beautiful, but most sorceresses are. Perceptive. I never doubted that she would go into politics. It’s the sort of thing she is suited to.”

“And you?”

She turned to look at him and smiled. “What do you think?”

He smiled back, small and shy. “I think you are just kind, milady. And the most capable fighter I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, isn’t that a compliment,” she said, reaching over to tap the bottom of his chin lightly with a finger, and his grin grew.

“Milady is always most deserving,” he said. “Though if Alya has your high regards, then she must truly be a character.”

“I wonder if she was the one who recommended me,” said Marinette absently. “The notice… sounded like her voice. And the letters looked of her hand.”

Adrien said nothing, just humming in acknowledgement of her words, seemingly lost in his own thoughts and worries. Then: “Milady… may I… do you want…”

She sat up. “Yes, you may,” she said softly.

He shucked the outermost parts of his armor and clothing, until he was only dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, and then climbed into the bed to wrap his arms around her waist, one resting in the curve of her side, the other reaching up to replace her own fingers combing through her hair. She sighed a little bit in pleasant comfort. He sighed a little bit into her neck, the breath tickling the sensitive skin. She rearranged her limbs so that her own arm snaked around his neck and over his shoulders.

They had started doing this when a moon ago he had, hesitatingly, asked to hold her while they camped once outside. He was anxious sometimes, scared, plagued by nightmares, dreams of a life past that he was afraid of dredging up again. She had never asked what had happened in his past to warrant such terrible dreams, but the arrangement was so comfortable that she obliged anyway. Companionship, she said to herself, closing her eyes, feeling his warm body press against hers.

He brought a leg up to rest between hers, nudging her own knees apart to make room for his own. “Milady,” he murmured quietly.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he sighed, bending his head further down to press his nose against the patch of skin where her neck met her shoulder, her shirt having slipped down from moving around in the bed. “Just… milady.”

She brought a hand up, threading her own fingers through his hair. “My kitty,” she murmured into the crown of his head.

The arm around her side squeezed a little tighter. She almost heard Alya’s voice in her head— _Marinette, dear, what the hell are you actually doing—_ but she felt so comfortable that she could not help falling asleep to the sound of his breathing, steady on her skin.

She would worry about it later, she decided, as the last of her consciousness faded. Tomorrow brought matters that were more pressing, and she needed rest for that.

 

 

 

 

It was noon when Jean-Paul de Pont-Pontier and Blaise de Césanne met them at the inn. They greeted her with all the pretensions of a proper knight-errant of Toussaint—a kiss on her gloved knuckles, a murmured “lady witcher”—and sat down around the table with mugs of lager.

They spoke in Toussaintois. It was akin to remembering an old dance for Marinette. Though she’d not spoken it in many years, her mouth still knew how to move, how to push the vowels up into her nose and to bring the soft purring out of her throat. The knights took much delight in her accent, though Marinette supposed that, like all Toussaintois, they found great joy in any talents a lady might possess. She indulged them in their tendency to speak of aimless little things, food and wine and weather.

Adrien sat and spoke sparingly, only when addressed. He was a quiet person, after all, only talkative when their back-and-forth had roused it out of him teasingly, in swift, passing moments between sparring clashes and horse races and the rush of slaying monsters, the wind wafting the stench of entrails and fluids around them. The tavern room held no such thing, though he seemed to hide his sullen mood in front of polite company by eating a great many loaves of bread.

When they finally got around to the subject of the contract, she spoke first.

“My companion stays,” she said. “I will not agree upon this contract if he cannot be present to assist me.”

The knights exchanged a look.

“It is agreeable,” said Blaise de Césanne.

“Indeed, the duchess will be quite intrigued,” said Jean-Paul de Pont-Pontier. “Chloé, is—er—Chloé Marie is rather fascinated by witchers.”

“Why?” asked Marinette.

“As a child, she was saved from a golem by one,” explained Blaise, “and her father gave that brave witcher a title along with coin, but he asked only for a title of an estate long-dead, and disappeared soon after.”

“Curious,” said Marinette. Adrien drank several huge gulps of his beer, hiding his face in the large tankard.

“It was before Sir Blaise and I had arrived at court to begin our squireships,” said Jean-Paul. “Though I am sure the duchess will know who this witcher is, and perhaps also several of the older noblemen who were close to the late Duke at the time.”

The rest of the negotiation went smoothly. The Duchess Bourgeois lived in Beaucourt, which was at least a week’s ride from where they were, so they left as soon as they could, galloping across paths, southwards, through dense pine forests, and then mountains with only winding perilous crossings they had to precariously navigate, a hoof in front of the other.

The first night they slept in an inn, paid for by the gold that the Toussaintois had, given to them by the Duchess Bourgeois for official state use. They had arranged to sleep as they usually did, Marinette taking the bed and Adrien the floor, when, hours past the moment she fell asleep, he woke them with a great shout.

He was panting, heavily, his hair sticking up at a strange angle in the back, his cat’s eyes dilated and wide. Whispered curses slipped by his lips, as if he wasn’t quite aware that he was speaking.

With a snap of fingers, she lit a candle with a quick Igni spell, throwing the room into a dim light. He turned to look at her, his pupils mere slits.

“Are you okay?” she asked him quietly. His gaze flicked back and forth between her eyes, his shoulders still heaving.

“I think,” he breathed, “that we may have to do what we must tonight. If it is okay with milady.”

“Always,” she said. And they settled into the bed, limbs intertwined, his breath at her neck, his hand squeezing her shoulder intermittently like he was overcome by seizures.

She moved a hand to his face. In the darkness of the room, everything felt more uncertain. If worse came to worst, then she always had the option of calming him with the Axii spell, and he had told her that he would willingly submit to it, knowing that she would only do so under the most dire of circumstances, but it gave her an uneasy feeling. He was more than capable of taking care of himself anytime else, but here, in the inn’s bed, as he shivered in her arms (and she _tried_ not to wander too far with that thought), he was more vulnerable than anyone she had ever seen. It was a vulnerability without words, but one that she felt she ought handle more delicately than she had to for any of her other— _companions,_ she thought, before the thought strayed too far.

She was finding herself among stranger and stranger habits now.

Maybe she shouldn’t have taken this contract at all, but she had felt a strange thrill of excitement when she’d seen the names, clearly Toussaintois. It had been decades, truly. She had almost forgotten what the Toussaint sun felt like on her face and back, the smell of sweet grapes in vineyards left and right, the clearness of the sky in a vibrant blue only found in rare gemstones.

But as she watched Adrien writhe in apparent dream-pain, she fretted. He was from Toussaint, too, so he had said, and, like Marinette, could speak the language fluently, but she wondered if there were terrible things that had happened to him there. It wouldn’t be too implausible, she thought. Maybe.

Eventually the mountains gave way to rolling hills, vineyards green under the sun, buildings painted prettily blue and pink and white, and rivers so clear she could see the riverbed clearly through the water in daytime. Adrien seemed to feel better with the sunshine on his skin, laughing as they fell back into their play-horseracing, and her worrying lessened when she heard him laughing wildly, like a hawk crowing triumphantly at a successful catch. Toussaint was home, and they both felt it. It would be all right, Marinette thought, laughing as Adrien’s horse jumped over a rushing river while he shouted in victory. It would be all right.

 

 

 

 

“The capital is still a ways off,” said Jean-Paul that evening as they dismounted in the horse shelter by the inn. “However, Sir Blaise here is due to enter a tournament nearby, so, if it is agreeable with you two, we shall stop by the tournament grounds first to watch Sir Blaise’s knightly exercises before arriving in the capital to see the duchess.”

“Tournament?” echoed Adrien, tipping his head to one side in interest.

“Yes,” said Jean-Paul. “Does the North have such entertainments?”

“Not that I know of,” said Marinette. “Though local fist-fighting rings are not uncommon.”

“Then you must simply stay and watch,” insisted Jean-Paul. “These are nothing like those fist-fighting rings!”

Adrien shrugged when she looked at him for an approval. She shrugged at Jean-Paul and Blaise in return. “If it pleases you, then we would welcome a chance to experience a bit of Toussaintois culture,” she told them.

“Excellent!” Jean-Paul beamed. “Then we shall depart tomorrow!”

It was well into the afternoon when they finally arrived. They guided their horses to the stables, after which Blaise bade them farewell and headed to the tent that had been erected on his behalf. Jean-Paul lead them instead towards the spectator’s box, and they sat up in the front row, after Jean-Paul confirmed that they were the duchess’s most honored guests.

No sooner had they sat down did Jean-Paul straighten up.

“Oh!” said Jean-Paul suddenly.

“Oh?” said Marinette, vaguely intrigued.

“Over there,” he pointed, and Marinette and Adrien looked. “It is one of the duchy’s most esteemed lords!”

A skinny man with an equally skinny mustache took note of them, and made his way over to them, another smaller figure trailing behind him. Jean-Paul stood, motioning for Marinette and Adrien to do the same.

The skinny man stopped in front of them and eyed them all critically.

“Jean-Paul de Pont-Pontier,” he said briskly.

“And my lord Argencourt,” said Jean-Paul, bowing briskly. “Might I introduce Marinette de Proulx-Chêne, and her companion…?”

“Adrien,” she offered, and then was silenced by Adrien’s hand on her shoulder.

“Adrien d’Agreste,” he said, with a small bow.

“Armand D’Argencourt,” said the man with a stiff nod. “You may address me as D’Argencourt. And, if I may return the favor of introductions: my resident witcher, Kagami d’Argencourt.”

A small woman stepped forward, her sharp amber eyes framed by dark hair cut short and tight around her face. Her eyes were keen, amber-colored, and shaped unusually that reminded Marinette of her mother from far away. Her armor was similar to that of Adrien’s, if not with a reddish dye, and her medallion was completely the same.

Cat School, like Adrien. She resisted the temptation to look back at his face to gauge his expression.

“Usually,” said D’Argencourt with a mildly condescending tone, “I would offer up my resident witcher for her services, especially for the Duchess Bourgeois, but I suppose that more witchers would make the job easier, wouldn’t it?”

Kagami eyed them with a frosty gaze. Marinette returned it with a curt nod.

“Perhaps,” she said, not taking her eyes off Kagami’s. “But I do find that as I was personally summoned by the duchess herself, that I might act as the leader for this mission.”

Kagami’s eyes turned even colder. “Of course,” she managed.

D’Argencourt’s eye glanced between them, not missing their exchange. “If the duchess wills so then it may be fit to see it granted,” he said stiffly. “A pleasure making your acquaintance, Marinette de Proulx-Chêne. Adrien d’Agreste.”

“Likewise,” said Marinette, inclining her head. D’Argencourt mirrored her gesture with a stale, restrained smile and turned away. Kagami followed with a lingering cold stare on Marinette.

“He’s quite the stickler for family lines. Proud of his family history, that one,” said Jean-Paul into Marinette’s ear as they sat back down.

“Oh?”

“The Argencourts were formerly the sovereign family of Toussaint, but after many years were usurped by several families. Toussaint changed hands between several families until it was finally the current duchess’s esteemed own house of Bourgeois,” said Jean-Paul. “Armand once challenged the duchess’s own father to a duel for the title, though it ended unfavorably for him.”

“I see,” said Marinette. “So he’s feeling a little slighted by the duchess?”

“Indeed, a residual sort of resentment,” said Jean-Paul, nodding thoughtfully. “Ah, look, the exercises are starting!”

He gestured to a gate on the far side of the arena, and Marinette’s eyes widened as she saw the beast squirming and screeching behind the iron gate.

“A—a shelmaar?” Marinette said, the instinctual dread pooling in her stomach.

“Yes,” said Jean-Paul. “These days, it is quite in fashion to open with a trial against a beast as fearsome as this one. And this one in particular was a gift from the Nilfgaardian emperor. It would be a waste if it were not to be used. Ah, the champion arrives!”

Another gate on the nearer side of the arena opened. The bard blew a trumpet as a single combatant walked out, a sword on his back and a helmet obscuring his face. The side of his helmet was embossed with a design that was too fine to make out far away, but the crest on his chest, however, was the blue-green of a clear lake on a summer’s day, which plucked a faint string of recognition in her chest.

Opposite, the gate in front of the shelmaar opened. A servant prodded the shelmaar’s rear with a sword, once, twice, before it bolted, screeching all the while, thrashing its tail, the bells attached to it ringing with every thump of its tail against the ground. The lone figure did not even so much as flinch as the beast screeched, bumping against the walls of the arena, confused by the noise of the bells. The crowd roared, including Jean-Paul beside them, but Marinette and Adrien remained silent.

“That’s—that’s dangerous,” murmured Marinette, Adrien nodding silently by her. “You shouldn’t use such a beast in such a folly, even if it is confused by bells on its tail. It only hurts them, and it poses great danger to the combatant and those watching. Only a witcher could stand a real chance against a shelmaar, and even then—”

“Oh, no,” said Jean-Paul. “This combatant is more than capable of taking this monster on.”

It was then that Marinette noticed that the man did not don plate armor like his fellow Toussaintois. Instead he wore light leather armor with braided chains and links across the shoulders and chest. He did not hold a shield in his off-hand, either; rather, when he drew his sword, he held it with two hands, hilt by his shoulder, pointing horizontally at the monster.

She and Adrien exchanged a strange look as he began circling the monster, his sword still raised and level. Then, he lowered his sword and gave a shout towards the beast.

The shelmaar shrieked, and immediately tucked in on itself, rolling at a dangerous speed towards the lone knight. The crowd roared as a cloud of dust kicked up, obscuring the figure. Beside her, Adrien’s fist clenched.

Then, the dust cleared, revealing the shelmaar squealing while on its back, its softer vulnerable belly exposed. The combatant had danced away at the last second, apparently, and now went to work, spinning and dancing around the monster quickly, slicing off limbs and chunks of flesh off the monster, before finally dealing a single blow to the monster’s face, splitting it apart, and causing it to convulse before dying with a final screech.

Marinette’s spine felt suddenly cold, prickling with recognition. More than recognition, even. She knew those maneuvers as deeply as her bones could feel it. She had been trained in them so rigorously that she could do it practically asleep.

Adrien let out an uneasy noise. “But…” he murmured quietly enough for only Marinette’s ear. “That is…”

“The monster is slain!” announced the bard triumphantly. “And so shall they sing of his deeds, refrain after refrain—”

The combatant stepped away from the monster, sheathing his sword on his back, and then pulling the helmet to reveal his face. Marinette let out a soft gasp, her eyes widening in sudden realization.

“But that’s—” she stammered.

“The great Lord Witcher! Luka de Couffaine!”

Luka pushed the dark hair out of his eyes, and smiled directly at her.

“Hello, Marinette,” he said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey kids. i'm back with. just. a ton of expository dialogue (like there is actually so much. i'm so sorry) and a dash of ladynoir-style flirting (i hope. adrien isn't very punny here. maybe i should work on that). also this is extremely not edited at all. i don't have a beta or anything like that so uhhhhhhhhh if it reads funny in some places that's why. (i'll get around to editing... eventually)
> 
> as for next update: it's not like i don't have a road map for this fic (i do) but i probably won't update very often or quickly, because i might be getting a job soon? but i intend to finish everything i write, truly.
> 
> luka is about 120-150 years old to marinette and adrien's 100 years of age.

“Lord Witcher,” Marinette echoed the bard dumbly.

“That’s not right,” said Adrien. “Shouldn’t it be ‘master witcher’?”

His voice sounded very far away. Marinette found herself unable to move even a muscle, as Luka waved to the crowd for silence.

“I dedicate my victory to Her Grace’s most illustrious guest, the Lady Witcher Marinette de Proulx-Chêne!” he declared, looking directly at her.

The sea of heads in the audience all swiveled towards her, and she colored. Luka’s mouth was slightly quirked into a small grin, and she couldn’t help but feel perhaps the ground had tilted to one side in the very slightest way.

Beside her, Adrien seemed to vibrate with emotion held back. Of what, Marinette had no real idea.

A squire presented Luka with a rose. He twirled the stem thoughtfully between his thumb and ring finger for a moment, before turning to her. Her heart seemed to beat with every step that brought him closer to their box.

“For the fairest,” he said, looking up at her.

She took the rose, the rush of blood in her ears drowning out the noise of the crowd. Luka’s eyes, his pupils dilated in a huge slit, did not move away from hers, his face coolly arranged in a calm mask. He had a handsome face, Luka did, with a strong nose, lips flushed a pretty pink. Maybe fifty-some years ago she would have acted upon it, but fifty-some years ago she was a different person. 

They were both different now, it seemed. 

“Lord witcher,” she murmured, rolling the stem of the rose between her fingers. She’d never heard such a thing.

Luka’s lips quirked into a coy smile, and he bowed again before stepping back into the arena. With a last wave to the crowd, now cheering, he disappeared into a doorway going down into the dirt, where they held the champions.

“It should be ‘master witcher,’ he doesn’t have a title,” said Adrien again with a cut of irritation.

“In fact, he does,” said Jean-Paul. “The House Couffaine was overtaken by the family Comtois several generations back, after Luka was taken to become a witcher. Several years back, he returned to claim his birthright, and, er, did so with great conviction.”

“And the House of Comtois?” asked Marinette.

Jean-Paul opened his mouth and closed it, the Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously. “Well, it is a house of Toussaint no longer,” he said.

“I see,” she said. 

“Good to know he’s like the rest of us,” murmured Adrien in her ear. “Wonder if he’s got a nickname? The Strangler of Comtois has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Hush,” said Marinette, as the bard blew his trumpet. “The next round of battles is about to begin.”

“Even if he does have a nickname, I’ve a song written about me, so he can’t compare to that.”

“I said,  _ hush,”  _ said Marinette, but she could not help but mirror Adrien’s smile. He squeezed her shoulder briefly, amiably, before drawing his hand back onto the expanse of bench between them. She set the rose aside and rested her hand beside his. Her unease was already fading away.

The tournament lasted until the sun had set, the light still streaking the sky in reds and purples. Knights were awarded wreaths and crossbows and shields by the tournament patroness, Sabrina de Rain-Comprix, a lady-in-waiting to the duchess. The evening saw revelry in drink and food and song by bards all over, and dance by those who felt the warmth of alcohol more keenly in their stomachs and hearts. At nighttime proper, the knights retired to their tents, leaving empty mugs of lager behind, and Marinette and Adrien, likewise, left to sleep under the stars with their swords under their pillows.

Or, she would have, if a man hadn’t suddenly grabbed her by the shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. Reflexively, she unsheathed the dagger in her belt with one hand, and with the other threw her assailant over her shoulder, straddling him with the blade of the dagger pressing into his neck.

“Marinette,” the assailant laughed, his voice familiar. “It’s me.”

“Luka?” she squeaked, before jumping off of him—it was too close to situations she’d been in fifty-some years ago. “Gods, I’m so sorry, I thought you were someone else—”

“It’s quite alright,” said Luka, brushing his trousers off and turning to face her. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

A beat passed while he smiled fondly at her, before he stepped forward and embraced her tightly. She gasped a little bit for air—it was a tight embrace, filled with things she’d heard from those years past—but returned it all the same. After all, it was only what was due for a friend.

“And your companion,” said Luka, drawing back and eyeing Adrien with an edge she wasn’t sure she saw quite right. “I fear we’ve not been introduced.”

Marinette stepped back as well. “This is—this is Adrien,” she said.

“Adrien d’Agreste,” he echoed, stepping forward boldly.

“Ah,” said Luka. “I do not know of a House Agreste. Where is it?”

“It is a House from a century past,” said Adrien, stonily. “If you’ve truly no knowledge of it, I’d suggest you check the Ducal Archives and see.”

“Perhaps I will,” said Luka. “But perhaps I won’t. I’ve better things to do with my time. I must admit I’ve also found some interest in this Beast of Toussaint, though I will concede that my renown as a witcher is not as close as it is to yours, Fairest and Most Famed of Witchers,” he added, with a small wink to Marinette.

Adrien’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, but Marinette had spent long enough around him to know his facial expressions.

“Alas,” said Luka, “It appears that the duchess would prefer your services and skill to mine. Which I’ve no objection to, having seen your sword in battle.”

“O-oh, it was years ago,” she said, mildly flustered, though she felt, really, she had no reason to be, it was all the same sort of thing he spouted at her when they’d first met.

“But surely your skills have even improved since the last time we met,” said Luka, bringing her knuckles to his lips.

She could feel Adrien’s discomfort, and upon glancing over at him saw that his eyes were lowered, his brow halfway between furrowed and unfurrowed. No, she thought, he was just tired, he was fine, it had been a long day of sitting about and not doing too much at all. He was just jumpy, and tired. She was, too.

“Perhaps so,” Marinette said, turning back to Luka, “but it’s been a long day, and my companion and I wish to rest.”

“You could rest in my tent, if it would be desirable?” he offered.

“No. We’ll sleep like true witchers tonight,” she laughed, and stepped out of his embrace. “Good night, Luka.”

“Good night, fair Marinette,” he said, his hand lingering on hers.

Adrien trailed behind her slightly as they made their way to a patch of grass on hillside near the tournament camp. He said nothing as they settled down, put their swords to their sides so to easily reach them, folded packs under their heads for pillows. The moon shone brightly without the light of the torches to distract them, and Marinette could make out the stars and planets stretching across the sky.

“How do you know him?” asked Adrien, suddenly. “Luka.”

She turned her head to look at him. His brow was furrowed with trouble, his gaze not quite looking at her, or at anything in particular.

“Luka?” she murmured. 

“Yes,” he said, even quieter.

“Well, he…” She trailed off, looking for words. “We met, once, when I had only been several years on the Path, and…”

“And?”

“We... may have had something more than friendship,” she  admitted. “Once or twice in Novigrad, and in Nilfgaard.”

They had not been memorable times, just times remembered. He was a reverent lover, poor with words and better with a lute, and that by itself was not anything particularly attractive to her. He did not please with meaningful conversation, nor did fighting at his side feel exhilarating—he rather seemed to do all the work, throwing himself in front of whatever enemy they fought for needless chivalry. She was more than capable of handling herself.

Nevertheless, he was attractive by anyone’s account, a good dancer, and lips that satisfied those seeking a kiss. She supposed, anyway. Those times where his cool smile and tousled hair would flutter her heart were long gone now. 

“Are you still?”

Adrien’s question jerked her back to their small camp laid out under the moon. His hands were clamped firmly under his head, and his eyes looked up at her from under lashes. She swallowed a flurry of butterflies before answering.

“I’m not sure,” she said after a moment. “I…I suppose I wouldn’t say no. I’ve no memories of him that aren’t fond.”

“I see,” he said with a strange tone.

“Does it bother you?” she asked with a shred of hope, daring to venture a little farther, that maybe he might give her something other than the teasing smile he always gave, the kind clear face that never betrayed anything more than he showed.

“No,” he said instead.

She searched his face, but could not even find cracks thinner than hairs. The hope receded back into the depths of her chest, twisted and blackened and made unfeeling by the mutations.

For a moment, just the sound of his breathing, in time with the wind caressing the grass. She watched him carefully, head propped up on her arm. His eyes were closed, still tense, as if he was holding something back, thoughts and words on the tip of his tongue.

_ It’s me,  _ she thought desperately.  _ You don’t need to hold back with me. I’ll look. I won’t turn away. _

“Milady,” he breathed, using his nickname for her when no one else was around, “can we—if that’s okay with you—”

“Always,” she said. “Don’t ever feel like it isn’t, because it is always okay.”

He breathed once, twice, shakily.

“I just want to—to know you are here, milady,” he said, so quietly she hardly heard him. “To know that I am by your side, and you are by mine.”

The ground felt cold under her back, which now felt so hot that it might have burned. Every inch of her burned, but like a slow simmering fire in a hearth just lit. Companionship, she thought. Companionship that yearned for a warm body in her arms and a steady breath rocking in sleep by her side. Companionship that opened her arms to him, let him scoot closer, let him rest his head in the crook of her neck and shoulder, companionship that tangled their legs together, companionship that whispered his words again in her head,  _ to know that I am by your side and you are by mine. _

His face was so close. She could have taken it in her two hands, held it, caressed eyebrow and eyelid and cheekbone and stubbled jaw. A thumb might have grazed his lip, slightly chapped but fleshy enough to give, soft enough to perhaps even send shivers down her spine if they met hers—

But it was companionship, she reminded herself. Adrien was not a man who found himself particularly wanting in any of those areas, and she had never seen him so. And until he did, she would stay her tongue. There was a monster to slay, and a dangerous one at that, and for that she ought to keep her mind clear and focused.

Nevertheless, she closed her eyes. The tension seemed to unwind by itself with his arms round her waist. There was nothing wrong with enjoying that. Nothing wrong at all.

 

 

 

  
  
The next morning saw more rounds of the grand tournament: a shooting contest, and a horse-racing contest, and after the noon meal there was the first round of jousts, which Adrien seemed to enjoy greatly, if Marinette could judge by the way he sat at the edge of his seat and watched with gleaming eyes. 

She had started to feel a little irritated, though. It had been a day and still she had not met the duchess. Irritated, she inquired Jean-Paul, shouting over the noise of the crowd, as they watched Blaise de Césanne ride triumphantly down the length of the jousting area, celebrating his victory.

“Er, about that, yes—Her Grace has said she will see you in the afternoon, following the jousting activities,” Jean-Paul said.

“Does the Beast’s terror not concern her?” retorted Marinette.

“I-it does,” said Jean-Paul, slightly flustered. “But the duchess also places great value in tradition, and—”

“Tradition’s more important than people dying, huh,” remarked Adrien with a cold bite to his words.

Jean-Paul had no response, other than to open and close his mouth foolishly. Then he stood abruptly and left. Marinette and Adrien looked at each other curiously, before Jean-Paul returned, and said “Please follow me.”

They left the arena, swerved around the armorer’s tent and the blacksmith’s tent, closer to the river, to a tent with a flag propped up at its highest apex—a red field upon which a knight upon a horse bore a flag. The tent was open on one side, and beneath stood a young woman, half of her blond hair pulled up in a twist and the other half cascading down her hair in curls. She had sharp blue eyes, and lips painted a pale pink that Marinette had not known existed. Her dress was luxurious and golden, silk and satin and beading. Marinette found herself entranced.

“The lady witcher Marinette de Proulx-Chêne, and her companion, master witcher Adrien,” Jean-Paul announced.

“Companion?” The woman turned to look at them as they approached. “How very curious. I remember asking for only one witcher.”

“And the one you get, Your Grace,” said Marinette, bowing slightly.

“Lady witcher,” returned Chloé Marie with a smile Marinette found truly insincere. “I am most grateful and flattered by your presence. Long have I held much interest in your fame, Marinette. It is my great pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” 

“The pleasure is all mine,” replied Marinette through gritted teeth. 

Chloé nodded and turned to Adrien, standing beside her with his hands behind his back. “Oh! And you—yes, I do believe we’ve met before.”

Marinette snapped her head around to look at Adrien’s face, which had softened to a slight smile. “Your Grace,” he murmured, stepping forward and bringing her knuckles to his lips. Chloé smiled back.

“It is good to see you again, Adrien d’Agreste,” she said. “I did not think we might see each other again, or that you would return to Toussaint.”

“It is where the Path has taken me,” said Adrien, with a sideways glance to Marinette. She quickly turned her gaze away as Chloé nodded in understanding, her own blue eyes lingering on Adrien’s before moving to the armored woman seated behind her.

“If I may introduce them—Alix Kubdel,” said Chloé, motioning with her hands, and the woman nodded brusquely, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. “The captain of my personal guard. And, behind you—”

“Oh, I need no introduction to the fair Marinette,” said a voice behind her, and Marinette whirled around to see another woman, tanned, red-haired, a grin as wide as the Eastern Ocean.

“Alya!” Marinette cried, and she rushed to the other woman, laughing as they embraced. “Oh, I knew it was you!”

“I had a feeling you’d agree to it if it was my hand,” said Alya, drawing back so Marinette could see her mischievously raised eyebrow. “It’s been far too long.”

“Indeed, it has,” said Marinette, returning Alya’s grin.

Alix gave an indignant sharp sigh. “I must say I still sorely object to this, Your Grace,” she said, crossing her arms. “We sought to hire one witcher and now we must empty our coffers to pay two. If you’d not listened to that crazy sorceress, we’d not be in this situation and just as well handle the Beast ourselves.”

“On the contrary, it’d be akin to sending more of your men—men with wives and children—to near-certain death,” Alya shot back. “A lighter coin pouch is but a small price to pay, in exchange for a more peaceful duchy.”

“But—”

“We settled the matter of the witcher’s employment long ago, Kubdel,” said Chloé sharply. “Though lady Alya has her misgivings at times, this judgement is most fair. However, since you’ve brought it up, then let us discuss the witcher’s compensation.” Chloé clasped her hands and turned to them. “I must ask: is it true that the witcher demands that which you find at home, yet did not expect?”

Marinette exchanged a glance with Adrien. “Not always, Your Grace. The Law of Surprise is… uncommon, but not unheard of. A payment in coin usually suffices.”

“Curious,” said Chloé. “I must confess I am disappointed. This law sounds most romantic.”

Marinette remained silent. Romantic, the Law of Surprise that had claimed her at birth, and whisked her away from her kind, loving parents at the tender age of seven years to a castle full of stony cat’s-eye gazes and the memory of pungent herbs. No. The witcher’s path was hidden to those who had never sought to walk it, and it was best kept that way.

“Though whatever surprises I may find at home may manifest in form of unwanted appeals, or unneeded fabric for dresses. No, I fear that you’ll not find any surprises to be worthy payment. The payment that we have gathered before instead will satisfy you, I hope?” Chloé gestured to a servant standing to the side. “We will grant you a deed to a vineyard, and a sum of coin. The land we will grant you immediately, for you’ll need lodgings while you hunt, no? But the coin will be given to you only after you’ve slain the Beast.”

“That is all very good and well,” said Marinette. “But I’d like to discuss the Beast itself. If I am to slay it, I’ll need more information.”

“Your Grace,” someone called out suddenly, and they turned to see a servant approaching them, panting and out of breath. “If I’m not troubling you—the banquet—the banquet begins in an hour.”

_ The banquet? _ thought Marinette. The confusion must have shown in her expression, for Alya leaned over towards her. 

“For the tournament’s conclusion,” whispered Alya in her ear.

“Yes, you’re quite right.” The duchess smoothed her skirts and re-clasped her hands. “If it would be agreeable with you, I will speak with you then, during the banquet.”

“But—”

“I’ll not be late to the tournament banquet, not after lady Sabrina spent such a long time organizing everything,” snapped Chloé. “If you’ll so kindly don proper attire, and we may reconvene then.”

“I’ve no—”

“I will see to it, Your Grace,” said Alya, cutting Marinette off and curling one arm around Marinette’s. “I would also ask that I spend time with my friend whom I’ve not seen in so long.”

“Very well,” said Chloé. “Then I shall see you all at the banquet.”

“Come,” said Alya, turning them towards the castle, Adrien trailing behind.  “Let us catch up and dress you properly.”

“I really don’t need a new dress,” said Marinette. “I can make my own.”

“You came here wearing  _ that _ and you thought that was acceptable for a banquet hosted by the duchess of Toussaint?” Alya sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Marinette, Marinette. You’ve spent so long in the North that you’re hardly yourself anymore. Now, then.”

She drew a circle with her finger and muttered something in Elvish. Marinette’s spine prickled with the energy drawn to Alya’s finger, but also with dread.

“Not the portals,” said Marinette with a groan.

“Do you  _ want  _ to walk all the way to my chambers in the castle? I don’t think so,” said Alya. “Besides, these shoes weren’t for walking.”

 

 

 

  
  
“I feel foolish,” muttered Marinette.

“You look  _ splendid,”  _ said Alya. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

They strode into the gardens of the palace, which had been decorated for the occasion. Noble men and women lingered with cups of wine in their hands, paper lanterns strung into the trees above them. Marinette gripped Alya’s arm a little tighter.

“Alya,” said Marinette. “My bosom feels like it’s going to spill out of this dress.”

“It’s just a little skin.” Alya waved her free hand. “You’ll be fine.”

Marinette fidgeted, tugging at the bodice of her dress—red, with golden trim, a skirt that flared out to flatter her thin waist, and sleeves with rich folds of velvet fabric. “I will rue the day I bought this for you.”

“Oh, hush. Besides, you’ll want to impress your  _ companion,  _ no?”

A rush of color flooded Marinette’s cheeks. “Wh-what,  _ no,  _ no, what are you talking about?” she sputtered.

Alya stopped suddenly, making Marinette stumble in her unfamiliar, uncomfortable shoes—wistfully, she wished that she was wearing her trusty boots instead—and stared into Marinette’s blue eyes.

“Do not make me  _ laugh,”  _ said Alya. “You surely don’t travel around with your dear master witcher Adrien for no good reason, don’t you? Have you seen how Luka looks at him?”

“Luka?” Marinette sputtered out a nervous laugh. “Luka doesn’t—he doesn’t  _ look  _ at him like any way—“

“For someone who has the eyes and ears of a wolf, you sure are oblivious to the signs in front of you,” said Alya, with a crooked grin. “I’ve not seen you with a proper lover since, well, Luka. It’s no surprise that he dislikes Adrien.”

“They’ve hardly spent five minutes standing twenty paces within each other,” said Marinette. They turned down to the path heading down the slope of the hill. “Luka doesn’t know him enough to dislike him.”

“That’s precisely the rub, dear Mari,” said Alya, plucking a cup of wine off a servant’s tray. “Luka doesn’t know who Adrien is. All Luka knows is that Adrien’s this, oh, tall,  _ handsome  _ witcher who follows you around and practically licks the underside of your boot.”

“Well—the beast is quite formidable, and we’ll—he’s been  _ very  _ helpful on the past contracts—”

“Marinette, Marinette,” Alya sighed. “All these years I’ve known you, and you’re still a dreadful liar. Ah, look, there Adrien is now.”

“What?!” Marinette exclaimed, and clutched Alya’s arm, doing her best to move around her friend. “No, he can’t see me like this, he can’t!”

“And whyever  _ not?”  _ Alya untangled herself from Marinette’s grip. “You’re  _ stunning.” _

Unfortunately, Adrien did see them and approached them immediately, his eyes wide and round, the slit pupils dilated. Marinette flushed, sure that the pinkness in her cheeks had spread to her chest as well—  _ gods,  _ her chest. How she longed for her trusty gambeson, warm and padded and laden with hidden pockets for decoctions and potions. Nothing so…  _ exposed  _ as this.

Adrien stopped before them. He had had his hair groomed, so that it swept elegantly above his brow, and wore an elegant doublet and a fine pair of trousers, in the Nilfgaardian style. He stood a moment longer, his mouth slightly ajar, his gaze flicking up and down Marinette’s figure. Then his face split into a warm smile, and he bowed low with a flourish.

“Milady,” he said, taking her hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles. “You look even more dashing than the duchess herself.”

She could not help but laugh, her nervousness all but melting away in the face of his jest. “Why, thank you, good sir.”

“You’re very welcome.” He winked.

“Master witcher,” said Alya with a victorious twinkle in her eye. “I leave my dear Marinette in your care.”

“But of course, Lady Alya,” said Adrien with a noble incline of his head. “Milady.”

“I really don’t see why we had to come to this banquet to talk to the duchess,” said Marinette, snaking an arm in the crook of his elbow. “It seems like an utter waste of time.”

“It was all just an excuse to get us into fancy clothes, I’ll bet,” said Adrien, tugging at the neck of his doublet, black and embroidered with intricate gold threading. “I feel practically naked without the metal at my chest.”

“I, too!” said Marinette. “And I can’t think of how to hide a knife in this getup.”

“Neither I,” said Adrien, smiling down at her.

She had gotten worked up over nothing. His eyes were kind and his face warm; he’d laid another hand over where hers rested in his elbow, and his palm was comforting and his touch pleasant. It was almost as if they weren’t witchers, as if Alya had not cast a spell to hide the ugly twisted scars on her chest and face, for fear that the good ladies and lords of Toussaint’s court might scream in fright. She could pretend, for a little bit, that she was a noble lady and Adrien her noble lord, betrothed with a dowry and a chivalric vow of love.

What a silly fantasy, she almost laughed to herself as they strolled through the gardens. But one she’d indulge in, for as long as she could.

“Your scars,” he said, suddenly. “Where are they?”

“O-oh,” said Marinette, flustered. “Alya cast a spell to hide them so people wouldn’t—wouldn’t look at me funny, I suppose.”

He twisted his face with displeasure. “But I like your scars, milady. You aren’t you without them.”

“Then let us pretend I’m not myself at the moment.”

“Oh? How might you do that?”

“Why, this stroll is rather romantic, wouldn’t you say?” she said, in a nasal, snobby accent. “Milord Agreste.”

“Why, I do agree, milady Proulx-Chêne,” said Adrien, catching on quickly. “So many delicate lanterns. So many wine caskets. I’ve half a mind to drink all of them at once.”

“Tell me, milord,” she said teasingly. “What wine do you most prefer? The Sansretour Chardonnay? The Metinna Rosé? Est Est?”

“Oh, are we playing this game?” Adrien pretended to be lost in thought, his eyes laughing. Then he turned his gaze on hers, bringing a finger under her chin. “I think the sweetest wine would be whatever is between your lips, milady.”

_ Oh,  _ she thought, feeling dizzy. “My lips, you say?” she said. “How very forward of you.”

“Indeed,” said Adrien, his eyes flicking up from her lips to meet her gaze. “Though I’d partake in whatever else milady would give me, too.”

She felt then like she might swoon, truly, and fall into his arms like some damsel in distress. He truly looked like a noble man who might whisk her away to a comfortable life with soft beds and delicious wines, who might lavish her with all the luxuries he could afford to give. The distance between their faces was so close that she wished one or both of them would trip, and let gravity press his body against hers, press their lips together in something resembling passion and love.

They were just playing. Just playing. She would never be a proper lady. Not her. “Milady” was just a nickname.

“What a shame then,” she said with a small, sad quirk of her lips. “For I’ve nothing to give you.”

“On the contrary,” said Adrien, drawing back—and she resisted the urge to whine in displeasure—“I could find the entire world where you are. Let us walk.”

And walk they did. They wound their way through the gardens, bards singing ballads, men and women in adorned in beautiful fabrics drinking and making merry, laughing in their bright, tipsy haze.

“I can’t help but think, does no one truly live in fear of the beast?” said Marinette. They watched noblemen spin around, blindfolded, before pinning tails made of ribbon onto pictures of donkeys. “They all seem so carefree.”

“That’s just how the nobility are. Caring about no one but themselves,” said Adrien bitterly, and she looked at him with surprise. 

“You speak from experience?” she asked.

“More or less,” he said, after a beat. He seemed to think a little while longer, then sighed. “Come,” he said. “Let us find the duchess. They told me she was further into the gardens, by the river.”

Indeed, the duchess was sitting on a chaise lounge sheltered by a tent by the river. Her dress had changed from a golden one to a dress of noble blue silk. Alix Kubdel stood beside her with a sword at her hip. Marinette gripped Adrien’s arm a little more tightly in envy. She felt too vulnerable without her two swords on her back.

“Your Grace,” said Adrien, bowing. Marinette did her best impression of a curtsy.

“Adrien d’Agreste,” said Chloé. “Lady Marinette. Please, sit. How good of you to come.”

_ Not like we had a choice,  _ thought Marinette through a smile, as she and Adrien arranged themselves on the cushioned chairs opposite from the lounge.

“As you promised,” said Adrien. “Information regarding the Beast, so that we might better hunt it down.”

The duchess rearranged her skirts on her chaise lounge, and set the wine cup she had been holding down on a nearby table. “What would you like to know of the Beast, then?”

“What of the first and second victims?” said Marinette. “How were they killed? Where were their bodies found?”

“The first victim was Laurence du Val,” said Alix. “He was once a proud member of the guard, a fine tourney competitor, but hung up his sword and took to winemaking.” Alix laced her fingers together. “Unpopular with the others who made wine, though. It was said he often cheated, was ruthless in business.”

“He was most dreadfully killed,” said Chloé. “Propped up like a  _ common _ criminal on a pillory in the town square, a sword hanging on his neck.”

“And yet, the death was by claw, not a blade,” said Alix. “No man could have killed him.”

Marinette put a hand on her chin. “That means, then, he was killed, and then posed? Strange.”

“What of the second victim, then?” asked Adrien.

“Alec de Cataldy. Killed similarly, but he was posed under a bridge, wearing nothing but a nightgown in the most unsafe part of Beaucourt, a pillow under his head.” Alix sighed. “But only a decade ago was he a close, trusted advisor of the previous Duke Bourgeois.”

“Could he not have been killed by those living there? Crime lords and the like?” asked Marinette.

“Do you take me for a fool, lady witcher?” demanded Alix. “He, too, was slain by a claw. Though his dealings with the underworld of Beaucourt were not unheard of.”

“And the third?” asked Adrien.

“Otis de Césanne. A man who made a fortune in grain. Found dead with a bag full of coin shoved down his neck, floating in the banks of the Sansretour with a dozen barrels of various goods—silk, grain, leathers,” said Alix. “You may know him as the father of Blaise de Césanne, who accompanied you here.”

“A knight who fought well, though some called him Otis the Stingy,” Chloé said. “A true penny-pincher, he was.”

“So,” Marinette said, rising from her seat. “To sum up: all the victims were older knights, killed not where their bodies were found but before, and with strange circumstances surrounding the discovery of their body. Perhaps there was a message they were hoping to convey.”

“What meaning, exactly?” demanded Chloé. “Their bodies were disrespected and mutilated. Utterly ridiculous. They were knights of Toussaint!”

“Maybe so,” said Marinette, beginning to pace. “But perhaps, from what you are telling me about each of these victims, they were not a model of virtue, and the Beast is trying to draw attention to it.”

“Every knight of Toussaint swears to uphold the virtues of chivalry: honor, wisdom, generosity, valor, and compassion,” said Chloé with disdain. “Such is our tradition, and such is the character of every man who becomes a knight. There is no way.”

“Perhaps the victims were presented so to highlight their lack of these specific virtues,” said Adrien. “What else might connect them together?”

They were all silent a moment, searching in thoughts for the answer to the question, when suddenly Alix cried out in a manner of one only then realizing something.

“How could I have forgotten?” she muttered frantically, pressing a palm against her forehead.  “Oh, how could I have forgotten?”

“What? What is it?” demanded Marinette.

“The connection between them?” said Alix, sitting up. “Those three, Otis de Césanne, Laurence du Val, Alec de Cataldy, along with the knight you know, Jean-Paul de Pont-Pontier, they were—they were all of houses close to the House Bourgeois. They formed a team, back when they were much younger. It was often that the Duke Bourgeois turned to them for matters of advice.”

“Then,” said Marinette darkly. “The murderer was attempting to rid the Bourgeois of their closest supporters, as well as undermine the virtues they swore by?”

“It appears so,” said Alix.

“What impudence!” said Chloé, pacing back and forth and curling her hands into fists. “After I have given all I have for Toussaint…!”

“Wait,” said Adrien. He stood suddenly, brow furrowed in panic. “That means—”

“Jean-Paul is the next victim,” hissed Marinette. She strode forwards and grabbed the duchess by both shoulders. “Where is he?”

“How am I to know?” said Chloé angrily. “Unhand me at once!”

“Calm yourself, lady witcher,” said Alix, standing up. “I’ll not be afraid to draw my weapon to protect the duchess.”

Marinette, still glaring at Chloé, retreated. “Where is he?” she demanded.

“Let me think!” snapped Chloé. She stood and paced, the skirts of her dress whirling around her feet. “There was to be a game, in the gardens… There’s a small jousting area down there, the second round of jousts was to be held there… yes, I believe he was entered in the lists.”

“Then he must be in his squire’s tent getting ready,” said Alix. “Let us be off!”

Alix whistled to the servants to prepare horses. They arrived swiftly, three handsome mares. Alix immediately swung up onto one, and Chloé the other, after tearing her skirts off her bodice, revealing her long undergarments. Marinette searched the seams for hers, but found they didn’t detach as easily as Chloé’s. A curse hissed out from between her lips.

“I can’t ride!” Marinette said, frustrated hands digging into her pretty silk skirts. Beside her, Adrien put a hand on her waist, ushering her towards one of the horses. He swung up onto the horse’s back, then reached out for a hand.

“Come on,” he said.

She grit her teeth, and stepped up on the stirrup. He grabbed her waist and hoisted her up so she was sitting between his legs.

“Just hold on to me, milady,” he whispered. She tried not to shudder at the sensation of his breath tickling her ear. Their gazes met, and she swallowed nervously.

“All right,” she said.

With a yell, he kicked his horse’s sides and they sprung across the path, galloping through the paths down to the small settlement of tents that had been erected near the jousting arena. Marinette squeezed Adrien’s waist as tightly as she could, her body bouncing up and down with the horse’s movement, and Adrien whooped wildly, his once carefully-combed hair whipped and tousled by the wind. 

“Part the way, part the way!” called Alix, and squires and armorers and smiths all stumbled in surprise at the sight of the duchess and the guard captain tearing through the camp on horseback. They skidded to a stop at a small center, of which the paths branched into various sections of tent. Before her horse had even stopped, Alix swung off its back and glared at the crowds.

“Where is the tent of Jean-Paul de Pont-Pontier?” demanded Alix. The squires looked at each other with great shock and fright and pointed in the direction of a path, heading eastwards. They followed the pointed fingers, running as fast as they could, and ahead Marinette spied the crest in front of one, a stag above a bridge on a blue field.  _ The crest of Pont-Pontier,  _ thought Marinette, her heart racing.

“Jean-Paul!” called Marinette. No answer. The crowd of people milling about in the jousting camp parted before their party, running manically towards the tent of Jean-Paul de Pont-Pontier.

“Jean-Paul!” echoed Chloé, a little bit more desperately.

Still nothing. They ran towards the tent, Marinette kicking off her shoes to run faster. Without the impediment of a constricting shoe, she sped ahead of everyone, and threw open the tent flap.

“Jean-Paul!” she said, and was answered by a sobering scene.  Adrien, Alix and the duchess stumbled to a stunned stop behind her, all breathing hard from the exertion. At the sight of the tent’s interior, Chloé turned away, a hand covering her mouth.

“Oh,” she cried. “Oh, _ Jean-Paul.” _

The stench of blood hung in the air. In the tent before them, Jean-Paul de Pont-Pontier lay dead.


End file.
